Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  Braedon’s face broke out into a grin of relief. “I knew how it would be! Thank you, your lordship, thank you!”

  Before he could say another word, Marnmouth had walked away, approaching a couple Braedon did not recognize. But it did not matter. Marnmouth had given his approval! A little haphazardly, it appeared, and not without some serious thought, but the man had not said no. He was free to pursue Emma Tilbury.

  Within minutes, he had returned to her side.

  “––the fashions are so much more impressive there,” she was saying, wide-eyed and eager. “I have longed to go there.”

  “You have never visited our French neighbors?” said Mercia.

  Emma shook her head. “’Tis one of my hopes that one day I will––”

  “Miss Tilbury,” said Braedon with a smile. “Would you like to dance?”

  The question had been asked impetuously with no conscious thought, but now a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He could do what he liked.

  Emma beamed. “I thought you would never ask.”

  Braedon felt like a king stepping forward to the set with Emma Tilbury on his arm. Everyone was staring, evidently impressed by her beauty and wondering which fortunate gentleman had been given the favor of her company.

  As they joined one end of the set, he looked down the length of it to see who else was there.

  At the very opposite end was Marnmouth. He was standing up with that Miss Worsley Braedon had met a few times––a little wild, a little rebellious, but nothing special.

  Nothing to Emma.

  “We do not have to continue if you do not wish to,” he said under his voice.

  Emma stared. “Why would I wish to decline, having just agreed to dance?”

  Braedon glanced at Marnmouth. She followed his gaze and smiled with such a look of understanding, he almost melted right there in the set.

  “I am far more interested in you, Braedon. Besides, Marnmouth has enough glittering jewels in his keeping. He doesn’t need me.”

  She laughed as she spoke, as though she had told a joke. Perhaps she had. Then the dance started.

  Every time their hands touched, something impressive passed between them, some sort of knowledge he could not understand. It was like they belonged together, and every time their bodies touched, it was…like coming home.

  She was his. More, he was hers.

  The set had ended before he was even sure they had begun, Emma breathing heavily, a smile on her face.

  “How warm it is,” she said.

  Braedon nodded. This was his chance. “Why do we not seek some fresh air?”

  Emma did not reply. Not with words, at least. Stepping past the countless gentlemen who had crowded around her to congratulate her on her elegant dancing, she placed her arm in his and allowed him to guide her toward one of the private balconies.

  Braedon breathed the cool air in deeply. The sounds of the ball had disappeared behind them—the violins starting up the next dance, the whoops and shouts of the dancers, the gossip of the other guests.

  Out here, it was just them.

  “I…I have had the best evening of my life with you.”

  Once again, she had drawn from him a truth he had not consciously thought, but in saying it, he knew he had not exaggerated.

  Emma released herself from his arm and turned to him. “Really?”

  There was something very vulnerable in her eyes as she uttered that one word. For someone who was always so self-possessed, so sure of herself, it was a moment of helplessness.

  Braedon nodded.

  Emma leaned up and, closing her eyes, kissed him. Braedon could not help himself. There was passion there, yes, but there was also control, and this was not a moment for control.

  Wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer, Braedon deepened the kiss, losing himself in her, in the taste of her lips. And she did not pull away. She did not resist––no, she allowed him in, teasing him and making him moan in her mouth at the exquisite taste of her.

  When they finally broke apart, all he could do was whisper, “Emma.”

  Braedon knew he was in genuine danger of falling in love, but he did not care.

  Emma smiled. “We…we had better not be out here too long. I have no wish to ruin your reputation.”

  Braedon laughed and pulled her closer. “Then we should make every moment out here count…”

  Chapter Seven

  Why was it everyone said taking a deep breath would help to calm oneself?

  Emma had taken at least three since she had stepped into this damned shop, and yet she was no calmer. But she had to stay composed. If she lost her temper, she would lose the high ground, and there was nothing she hated more than being in the wrong.

  Besides, she wasn’t. This was outrageous!

  She wouldn’t get anywhere if she started to show anger.

  “Let us start from the beginning, Mr. Wright,” Emma said, a smile plastered on her face and her blood boiling. “As you can see here, I did not order ten of the––”

  “’Tis my bill, Miss Tilbury,” interrupted the shopkeeper with an impressive tone, throwing out his chest. “I know what it says.”

  If only the fool could keep his voice down! It was most embarrassing to be standing here, quibbling over a bill for a haberdashers, Emma thought, but even worse, he had to shout out her name as he was doing it!

  There was another titter from behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw several ladies pretending to examine ribbons but were quite clearly listening to her conversation.

  They proved her point when catching her eye, and they began talking hurriedly about the weather.

  “I always know my bills when I see ’em,” said Mr. Wright impressively, as though that would cease the debate. “Because I write ’em. My bills. For Wrights Haberdashery and Co.”

  Emma sighed. It had been a fool’s errand to come here in person to argue with Mr. Wright; she should have realized that. Far simpler to write a letter, to explain in writing just how wrong this stupid bill was.

  “I am not arguing with you over whether it is your bill, Mr. Wright,” she said quietly, privately wondering whether if she had brought in one of the several other bills, he really could tell the difference. It was a cruel thought, she chastised herself. Even if it was true. “What I am saying,” she continued in a low voice, “is while I ordered two initially, someone, not naming names, obviously misheard me and wrote down ten. I should not be charged for the full ten.”

  It felt like a well-reasoned argument to Emma, who had been astonished to find ten gold gilt buttons delivered in a neat little parcel. Ten? What need had she for ten?

  But Mr. Wright was shaking his head. “But I had to order ten, Miss Tilbury, and that’s why I have to charge you. Ten is the minimum order, and I am sure one of my clerks would have informed you of that fact.”

  It was becoming more and more difficult to remain calm, especially as embarrassment surged through her bones.

  It was hard to believe this was her life now. Arguing about a bill for buttons in a haberdashery! Was this really what she had descended to?

  The cost of two gold gilt buttons had been an extravagance, something she had only permitted herself as a reward for not overspending on other things. But ten? Eight buttons, moreover, that she had no use for?

  “You have had this bill for over one month,” Mr. Wright was saying disapprovingly, as though she had committed some sort of crime. “A full thirty days, Miss Tilbury. I would have expected, if you disagreed with the numeracy, that you would have called before now.”

  Emma swallowed. It was a fair point, though she was not about to admit it. She hadn’t paid enough attention to the bill when it had come, and that was her fault, but she had little experience with such things!

  Before Marnmouth, she had never received a bill. She had not bought anything! When she was Marnmouth’s mistress, she did not see the bills! Beautiful things just arrived to adorn her, brightening he
r day.

  The door behind her opened with a jangle, and heavy footsteps entered the shop, but she did not look around. She did not need to see her audience ever increasing.

  Emma’s jaw tightened. It was never pleasant to look back on one’s life and realize the signs had been there, and she had simply danced the evenings away and spent the nights in his arms, not knowing dark clouds were gathering on the horizon.

  She needed to pick up the pace with Braedon. She needed to secure him, secure her own happiness.

  No more button arguments with haberdashers.

  There was a particularly loud titter, and Emma saw Mrs. Coulson stifling her laughter behind a handkerchief.

  The instinct to stride over there and accost her was strong, but Emma fought it. She needed to ignore them, the whispers and the pointing fingers, and come to an understanding with Mr. Wright.

  She saw a steely glint in his eye as she opened her mouth.

  “No, I am sorry, Miss Tilbury,” he said before she could get a word out. “I really am. I do not do this for my own amusement, but I have a shop to run and a living to keep, and I cannot sell two buttons designed for a jacket only you own.”

  Emma sighed and tried a little charm. “But my dear Mr. Wright, I am not quibbling over your excellent buttons. You are correct, they are beautiful, and I am sure, difficult to procure.”

  The haberdasher beamed. Evidently praise was a quicker way to his heart…

  “And I am happy to pay the full shilling a button for the two I ordered,” continued Emma, keeping her voice warm. “But you require eight additional shillings for them, a shilling a button, and…”

  Words failed her, as Emma found it impossible to speak the dreadful truth.

  She did not have eight shillings.

  Her purse, once so full of guineas she used to leave them in little piles along her dressing table at Marnmouth’s townhouse, was now almost empty. Only four shillings found their home there, and without them, she would not eat next week.

  Her situation had never been more desperate. It had been…what, almost ten years since she had been faced with utter starvation?

  Emma held her head high. She needed to keep a calm mind if she was going to get out of this bill––or more importantly, reach the end of the month still alive.

  A warm voice from behind her said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Wright!”

  Emma did not turn around. She did not need to. She knew those tones well, knew the cheerful greeting. Its owner was so welcome, her face broke out into a natural smile.

  “Ah, I can see the mistake.”

  Emma tilted her head to look into Braedon’s warm and welcoming smile. Then he winked, and her stomach twisted painfully in a new way. Braedon, winking?

  “Mr. Wright, your servant,” said Braedon, holding out his hand to the owner of the shop––who was almost falling over himself to greet the gentleman.

  “My lord!” Mr. Wright looked astounded such a high-born gentleman would even know his name––forgetting, Emma presumed, his name was painted in gold lettering over his shop. “I am most honored to see you––mistake? I do not think there is a mistake, Miss Tilbury and I were just discussing…”

  He continued to chatter on, Emma hardly aware of what he was saying. All her senses had been claimed by the gentleman standing beside her.

  Braedon. Abraham Fitzclarence. His very presence warmed her, and as she breathed in, nerves calming in his presence, she could smell that scent she associated with him. It filled her, making her stomach twist again in that strange new way it was now doing.

  “––normally send servants, so ’tis an honor to have a real viscount and in my store!” Mr. Wright was gabbling, voice rising impressively to ensure everyone else in the shop knew a titled gentleman had decided to patronize him.

  “Yes, yes,” said Braedon in a warm yet forceful voice. “Now, let me take a look at that bill––if you have no objections, Miss Tilbury?”

  Emma had never considered Braedon…well, an intelligent man. He did not give off the sense of refined education, nor a quick wit. But he had understood the situation perfectly—but how long had he been behind her?

  “Yes, of course, thank you, my lord,” she said demurely.

  The offending piece of paper was handed to him as she watched him carefully. It was a clever thing to do, but what could he do now? Even Braedon, with all his pleasant manners and impressive title, could not make ten into two.

  “Be my guest,” Mr. Wright was saying with a cheerful laugh. “I think you will find everything is in order! I have never had a customer quibble with a bill of mine before!”

  Emma forced herself not to frown. She knew why he was saying that, of course. He did not wish to be accused of overcharging; it would be the end of his business.

  Gossip moving fast in London.

  As Braedon carefully examined the bill, silence fell in the shop. All the other customers waited for Braedon’s pronouncement––hoping, Emma thought dryly, for him to declare there was indeed no mistake, and she needed to pay the entirety of the bill.

  “Ah, here you go.”

  Emma jumped. She had not expected Braedon to speak so quickly, nor with such assurance.

  “Yes, I knew there would be a misunderstanding, and a simple one, too,” said Braedon cheerfully.

  Emma watched Braedon fold up the bill and pass it back to Mr. Wright, but it was thicker than before. It was only when Mr. Wright unfolded it, mouth open to argue despite the gentleman in question being a viscount, that she saw it.

  A one-pound note. It had been folded in with the bill.

  Mr. Wright’s eyes bulged. In the fraction of a second that it took him to take in the sight of such riches, he quickly folded the two together and placed both in his pocket.

  “Thank you, my lord, I quite understand where the confusion came from,” he said smoothly with a wide smile at the pair of them. “I do apologize, Miss Tilbury, for the inconvenience.”

  The haberdasher even bowed. Emma could barely believe her eyes. Glancing at Braedon, she saw him wink again, and this time, her mouth actually fell open.

  To think Braedon, the blushing, stuttering man she had encountered at Mrs. Marnion’s ball, could be so suave and in control of a situation! There was a side of Braedon she had not seen.

  Emma did not understand the strange squirming in her stomach, but she recognized the fullness of her heart. He had saved her. What a gentleman.

  She may turn him into jelly whenever she tilted her head, but he was able to shape the world around him when it suited to ensure he protected those he cared about.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Emma said with a dazzling smile carefully calculated to increase his desire. “That was well explained. And thank you, Mr. Wright.”

  The haberdasher could not be more grateful, inviting her to return whenever it was convenient for her, suggesting a tab could be created for her to remove these little disruptions to her day…

  In short, he considered her under the protection of a viscount, with all the monetary benefits that provided.

  Emma did not dissuade him. Instead, she took Braedon’s arm and squeezed it ever so slightly. Braedon’s cheeks pinked.

  “Well,” he said, some of his bravery gone, “if-if your business here is concluded, can I suggest a walk?”

  It was perfectly done. “I would be delighted.”

  They walked out of the haberdashery shop arm in arm. Emma made sure she pointedly inclined her head to Mrs. Coulson, which was probably foolish in the circumstances.

  She could not help it. She had triumphed, with a little help from Braedon, and it was pleasant to see the old baggage color as they swept past her. Perhaps there were other uses for this delightful gentleman––procure her signet ring from Marnmouth, perhaps…

  It was only when Emma and Braedon had stepped out onto the pavement that she had collected her breath sufficiently to speak.

  “You did not need to do that,” she murmured as they walked at a le
isurely pace.

  Braedon’s smile was a little too knowing. “It was my pleasure.”

  So they had taken the first step toward their relationship, paying for her pretty things.

  She was one step closer to being a kept woman again.

  Braedon was a good man. She saw those gray eyes looking stormy, the tight jawline that promised so much pleasure. Having a gentleman pay one’s bills was all very well, but Braedon did it in a way that didn’t lose her any respect, and that was precious.

  “From now on,” Braedon said suddenly in a low voice, “send your bills to me.”

  Emma did not feel the victor. A little guilt seeped through her heartstrings.

  Somehow, and she would need to consider this at a later date, she had managed to trick the viscount into paying for her lifestyle––a lifestyle she had only gained through living as the mistress of an earl.

  The man had gained nothing but a few kisses, and this was how he treated her? Like a woman worthy of those ridiculous gold-gilt buttons she now felt ashamed for ordering.

  “B-But I-I cannot…you cannot possibly…” Emma’s voice faded as they crossed over, dodging a carriage being driven far too quickly.

  For the first time in her life, she was not coherent. Her splutters were an attempt to explain to Braedon she had expected nothing, and was grateful, and could not presume upon him again and again without some sort…

  Well. Payment.

  But those were not words she could articulate. Taking a deep breath, she tried again.

  “That is the second time you have rescued me,” Emma said with a flirtatious air. “If you are not careful, you will end up making it a habit!”

  Her laughter felt strange. Was this not the best thing that had happened all week?

  “Please, say no more about it––it has been my pleasure to be there at the right moments,” said Braedon, placing a hand on hers. He stopped as they came to another crossroads, but he did not seem eager to continue. “Of course, if you wished to repay me, you could…”